


A Perfect Threadwitch

by TwilightLegacy13



Category: The Witchlands Series - Susan Dennard
Genre: (though the last part takes place during Truthwitch), Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse, One Shot, Pre-Canon, This fic got away from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28182993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightLegacy13/pseuds/TwilightLegacy13
Summary: Alma det Midenzi is the perfect Threadwitch - she's been told for years that she's a master of locking away her emotions behind a blank face and a pleasant smile.  Some things, though, aren't half as easy as they appear to be from the outside.A character study of Alma over the years, from ages five to twenty.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	A Perfect Threadwitch

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: Non-graphic sexual abuse and threats, implied depression, mentions of death, brief sickness and injury.

Alma was five when the Korelli tribe was destroyed. She saw it happen from a distance, as she’d been taken away by an older woman from their village as soon as the attackers arrived. She was too young to understand just what it meant at first, but it was explained to her that she couldn’t go back home and that her family wouldn’t be there.

That never really got easier to bear, but the woman assured her that it didn’t have to and that her feelings were acceptable. Acceptable or not, Alma cried more days than not, for her lost family and friends and life that she’d known. She didn’t know who had killed them or why they’d done it, but it wasn’t fair.

They stayed in Saldonica for a few months before the woman told her that she knew a place where Alma would be safe and loved. A new home, she’d called it.

Alma smiled. _Home_. She would like that.

Alma was six when she arrived at the Midenzi settlement, which she had been told was to be her new home.

She’d barely gotten to take in the village before her when a woman arrived. Her black hair was cut short and matched her long, dark gown. “My name is Gretchya,” she introduced, “and you will be living with us now.”

“I’m Alma,” she said shyly. She couldn’t think of this woman as a mother—she wasn’t; no one but her real mother could be—but she hoped this might be something a bit like a family.

Beside Gretchya was a young girl about Alma’s age, who she assumed was her daughter. “Hello,” she said with a bright grin before reaching out as if to hug her.

Alma gladly would have reciprocated if Gretchya had not swiftly stepped between them, stopping the girl with a hand on her shoulder. “Iseult,” she chided. “Mind your behavior.”

There was nothing about Iseult’s behavior that Alma found particularly questionable—but then, this settlement was new to her. It seemed like they were not half so affectionate as the Korellis were.

Or, she thought, had been.

It hurt a little to know that she would not be able to embrace her new friends and family the way she wished to, but it was worth it. Having a new family at all was worth it.

“I’m s-sorry,” Iseult mumbled, stepping back before meeting Alma’s gaze. “Hello, Alma.”

“Hello,” she replied primly. If politeness was what they wanted here, then she would be polite if it killed her. “Is this your mother?”

The girl nodded once.

“Welcome, Alma,” Gretchya said. “I can show you around the settlement before the people come to greet you—unless you’d like to be introduced to them first?”

“I want to see the settlement,” Alma said, her curiosity outweighing everything else. This was home now, after all, and she couldn’t help wanting to know what it would be like.

“Very well.” Gretchya turned to her daughter. “Why don’t you go make sure Scruffs hasn’t gotten into the chicken coop again?”

With another nod, Iseult shot one final glance at Alma and then left.

“What’s this?” someone asked before Gretchya could even lead her anywhere. She looked up to see a tall man looming beside them who definitely hadn’t been there before. His eyes were piercing and Alma was grateful that she wasn’t the person he was scrutinizing.

“This is Alma,” Gretchya said by way of introduction, standing up a little stranger. Maybe Alma should work on her posture. “Alma, this is Corlant.”

He neither smiled nor welcomed her, instead raising his eyebrows. “The girl you’re taking in from the Korellis?”

“Precisely. I was just about to show her around.”

“Does she have a tongue?” Corlant asked.

Alma raised her chin. She _had_ been quiet, but he was rude. Her parents had always said to never be rude, and it didn’t seem quite fair that this man wasn’t reprimanded for it. “Yes.”

Then he did smile, but it wasn’t a friendly smile like the one Iseult had given her. She already missed that smile. “Do you think you’ll like it here?” he pressed.

“Oh, yes,” she said eagerly. “It’s home, isn’t it?”

Corlant pursed his lips, looking irritated. “Of course.”

Alma stepped back towards Gretchya, who rested her hands on her shoulders like she had done with Iseult. This seemed kinder, though, gentler—and Alma couldn’t help but wonder if it was a matter of the company. “Wouldn’t you like to _see_ your new home?” Gretchya asked her.

She nodded, even though she’d already said it.

“Perfect.” She didn’t let go of Alma’s shoulders as she faced the man again. “Thank you very much for greeting her, Corlant.”

Was that what he had been doing? Greeting her? It certainly didn’t seem like it, but she still didn’t know the way things worked around here. Maybe this was normal.

Once Corlant had swept away, Gretchya crossed in front of Alma so she could look nowhere else. The woman’s inscrutable hazel eyes stared into hers. “What do you think of the Midenzi settlement?” she asked.

“Oh, I…I like it,” Alma said, though she hadn’t even been here for a day yet.

“I can see your Threads,” Gretchya reminded her. “Do not lie to me.”

“I _do_ like it,” she insisted. She didn’t like being presumed a liar. “It’s nice. But not Corlant.”

Gretchya blinked. “Why do you not like Corlant?”

“He’s rude.” Alma recalled the frustrated look he’d given her when she called this place her new home. “And I don’t think he liked me very much.”

Gretchya glanced behind her before focusing on Alma again. She looked almost upset. “You cannot say things like that in front of him. Or,” she added, “at all.”

“Why not? Do _you_ like him?”

“I do not, but we must be kind.”

“So must he, then,” Alma reasoned. How was it worse to call someone disrespectful than it was to be disrespectful?

She merely frowned. “This is the Midenzi settlement, Alma. Meeting anger with anger will go nowhere. It’s best to be quiet and kind.” After a pause, Gretchya straightened and beckoned for her to follow. “Now, I will show you all there is to see before we return for dinner with Iseult.”

It had been a strange encounter, that was for certain, but Alma tried to put it behind her as she was given a tour of the settlement. When they returned to find Iseult playing with a red hound that the girl introduced as Scruffs, she couldn’t help but smile. How could she do anything else? She was safe, and she had a family again. It was such a happy day.

Alma was seven when she started to understand Iseult a little. She was quiet and didn’t smile as often as Alma did, but when she did it was just as light and true as anyone else’s. She mumbled and stuttered sometimes, but her words were worth hearing just as much.

Oddly, Gretchya didn’t seem to think so. She was quick to scold Iseult with a sharp “Mind your tongue,” which usually had the effect of silencing her completely instead of actually minding her stammer, whereas she was quick to guide Alma and teach her.

It must have been because she was still new to the Midenzis, and they wanted to welcome her. She smiled. It was so nice to feel welcomed somewhere again.

Alma was eight when she began to see the Threads of those around her, and she didn’t have the slightest idea how anyone could manage it. It was so much, _too_ much, too many colors and bonds and people. She began to understand why Gretchya was so quiet and withdrawn all the time. With such a whirlwind of feelings around her, Alma didn’t have much time for her own.

Thankfully, she had Gretchya to teach her that she was meant to feel that way—that she could deal with her feelings best by not overreacting with them, and the stasis she was being taught soon became quite manageable. Gretchya had her stand in front of a mirror, looking at the tics and movements in her face to learn what caused them and how to calm herself.

It was moments like these that calmed her, though: time spent around no one but Gretchya and Iseult. The only people without Threads to overwhelm her, the only ones who understood.

When things got to be too much, Alma closed her eyes just for a moment, like she could convince herself it was all imaginary. Gretchya complimented her for it, saying it would get easier over time and that it was a good thing she didn’t fidget.

She _couldn’t_ fidget, though. It reminded her too much of a friend she’d had before the Korellis were wiped out, a boy named Aeduan. He was kind and quiet and restless, and she couldn’t tap her fingers or flex her hands without remembering all the times he’d done that as they played together.

There were a lot of things she remembered—more than she should, for how young she’d been. If what once happened didn’t matter now, she didn’t think it was fair that she still had to remember.

The remembering didn’t stop, but the Threads could, at least for a moment. So Alma closed her eyes. She didn’t see her face in the mirror or the false calm there. She saw nothing.

Alma was nine when the Threads finally began to make a bit more sense, when she stopped worrying that she might get tangled up in the weave that crossed past nearly every person around her. She’d learned by now that the Threads weren’t really tangible unless you made a Threadstone with them, and she still didn’t know how to do that.

It wasn’t for lack of trying, though. She had heard Gretchya discuss those stones so often that they could only be truly important, and she was eager to prove that she could make them.

Knowing what the colors around her meant was delightful, and she made a game out of it. When someone asked her how her day was going or went to talk to Gretchya about something, Alma amused herself by trying to read their Threads to see how they were feeling without needing to ask. She’d been told it was rude to announce other people’s feelings to the world without permission, so she never did it aloud, but it was great fun to guess.

Surprisingly, Gretchya encouraged it. “It will help you learn to interpret the emotions around you,” she said approvingly. Alma loved it when Gretchya spoke with that tone of voice, like she’d done something right. So, naturally, she kept up with the game.

The only people she could not play it with, though, were Gretchya and Iseult. One day Alma was walking through the forest with Iseult when the reality sunk in that one day, the other girl would be able to join her.

“Won’t it be lovely,” Alma began, “when you can see Threads too?”

Iseult tilted her head thoughtfully. She had a way of always looking serious, even when they were doing nothing but amusing themselves. “Yes,” she finally agreed. “But it sounds confusing.”

“It used to be,” she admitted. “But oh, it’s so much better now, and Gretchya will help you. _I_ can help you now!”

Iseult smiled. “What’s it like?”

“Hmm.” Alma searched for the right word. “Pretty,” she settled on, thinking about all the beautiful colors she could see wherever she went now. “And special. I can see how people feel now. It makes me feel clever.”

“You are clever,” she said. “My mother says so.”

Gretchya had said that? She hadn’t told Alma, but it warmed her heart to hear that the woman who was practically her mother now approved of more than just her talents.

To keep her face blank and calm in spite of the giddiness flooding through her, Alma bent down and picked a stem of clover and began absently tearing it up. “You’re clever too,” she offered. 

Iseult’s face lit up. She looked so excited, so _happy_ that she didn’t need Threads for Alma to notice it. “Really?”

She nodded. “But she must say that too.”

“No,” Iseult murmured. “She doesn’t.”

Alma fell silent. She felt like she should say something. Disagreement seemed too much of an acknowledgment of her feelings, and an apology didn’t make sense when she didn’t know what to apologize for. She clenched her fist, pretending she held all the things she wanted to say until she crushed them and they weren’t worth saying anymore. Gretchya would be proud.

They kept walking until the sun began to sink below the horizon and they returned to the rest of the settlement, her palm stained green like concern. Green like clover.

Alma was ten when Iseult started seeing Threads, and this time she got to watch while someone went through the exact same thing she had. It was strange, to see the wide-eyed look on Iseult’s face as she took in the world around her now alight with colors and strings.

She tried to stay by Iseult’s side as often as possible while she was still getting accustomed to it. It hadn’t been too long ago, after all, that she’d been the one introduced to a whole new world and feeling like she was drowning in everything there was to see. She couldn’t let Iseult go through this by herself.

Besides, she could only imagine all the fun they’d have once she had gotten used to this.

Weeks slipped into months and Alma realized that Iseult wasn’t getting used to it, at least not the way she had. She flinched, sometimes, when people got too close, and her already free expression of emotions became even more noticeable than before.

In an attempt to help, Alma suggested having Iseult sit with her during her lessons with Gretchya instead of learning separately. She’d thought it was a marvelous idea, that she’d get to spend more time with her friend while helping them both get better at what would one day be their job, but Gretchya merely shook her head curtly and said that it wouldn’t make sense.

“You are far more advanced than Iseult,” she told Alma, “and she would slow you down.”

Alma opened her mouth to insist that she didn’t mind, but then she remembered what the very person in front of her had said on her first day here. _It’s best to be quiet and kind._ So she forced a nod, looking down at her lap.

They continued their lessons that day without Iseult, who didn’t show up to dinner. “Shouldn’t we look for her?” Alma asked as they sat down at the table.

“She’s probably gone for a walk,” Gretchya said in a tone that allowed no argument. “Or in that tree of hers, refusing to come down.”

Alma couldn’t see Gretchya’s Threads, and it was moments like these that she was sure she wouldn’t want to. Those rare flashes of motherly pride couldn’t possibly be worth seeing the purple Threads of disappointment directed at her real daughter. 

Alma was eleven when she decided she hated the color purple. She had loved her little game back when she was presented with the whole rainbow of colors to decipher, but now she saw purple everywhere she looked and it wasn’t fun anymore.

There was the dark violet that so many people in the settlement had when looking at Iseult, the kind that plainly said they thought she was a failure. It was now no secret that Iseult didn’t have the talent for creating Threadstones—though she was still young, Alma had already begun to craft them at her age and now regularly practiced the knots and loops with Gretchya. She was praised by the Midenzis, and Iseult was flatly scorned.

She didn’t like how different they were treated, but she knew there wasn’t much she could do to stop them. She only hoped that Iseult didn’t resent her for it.

That wasn’t the only shade of purple she kept seeing lately, though—there was also the pale lilac that, now that she thought about it, she’d been seeing for a long while but had only recently begun to pay any mind. And even then, the significance didn’t occur to her until she saw something strange in the window one day.

Alma had been sitting by the fireplace one evening, reading a retelling of the Moon Mother’s works when Threads caught her eye from outside. Purple, always purple, but these were light enough to capture her attention before the darkening sky. Alma rose, crossing to the window where she stopped dead in her tracks to see Corlant standing outside.

Strangely, he didn’t seem to be doing anything or going anywhere. He was just lingering on the path, standing too far from the window to see inside—to see Alma—but close enough to be within her vision.

Pale Threads curled from his long brown cloak in towards Gretchya’s small home, and for once, she focused on those individual Threads long enough to figure out what they meant.

 _By the Moon Mother._ Alma felt sick.

For the first time in years, Alma did something thoughtless, something she hadn’t planned and deliberated before doing calmly. She flung her book to the floor and yanked the curtains shut, so hard they almost tore, and tied them closed with the little cord sewn through the fabric. Then tied them again, and a third time until she knew the knots would be difficult to undo in the morning when the sun rose again.

In that moment, Alma didn’t care. In that moment, she was perfectly all right with keeping those curtains closed forever if it meant she wouldn’t have to see those horrifying Threads extending towards the person she thought of as a mother.

Did Gretchya know? She had to.

As though in a daze, Alma turned back around to resume her seat by the fire. Only once she was there did she realize she hadn’t retrieved her book, but she didn’t stand up to get it again. Instead she stared into the flames until her eyes watered and she had the excuse to block out her vision entirely and try to forget what she’d seen.

She closed her eyes and saw nothing, but nothing was starting to look a lot like purple.

Alma was twelve when Corlant asked the question that nearly everyone had known he would, and Alma and Iseult got to witness the unforgettable moment when Gretchya det Midenzi laughed in Corlant’s face.

Better yet, it wasn’t a forced or calculated laugh, but a genuine one of complete derision. Corlant snatched away his hand that had been clasping Gretchya’s, his eyebrows rising in shock. As though he had actually expected her to accept his proposal.

Then again, he _had_ seemed confident, or else he wouldn’t have asked where Alma and Iseult could hear.

“You know the law,” Gretchya said, recovering from her uncharacteristic laughter. “Only Heart-Threads may marry.”

“What does it matter?” Corlant asked quietly, though she could still hear every word. “You are in charge of the settlement—you can do as you please.”

Gretchya brushed her hand against the skirt of her black dress as though rubbing away the residue of his touch. “From a man so ideologically pure that he cannot bear the idea of magic, you are blind to your lawlessness.”

“Forget ideology.” His voice was a near growl now, his Threads darkening until Iseult reached out to take Alma’s hand for reassurance. “Think about the question.”

“It’s far too easy to find a man of your arrogance,” Gretchya said lightly, “though you distinguish yourself in your foolish persistence. Now, excuse me, I have borgsha on the fire.”

Corlant froze, his lips moving soundlessly before he settled on something to say. “Let me escort you back.”

“I think I’ll manage. If you are desperate for companionship, go back to the compound and take your pride with you.”

And Gretchya swept away without another word. Iseult followed after her at a near run, looking shaken by what Alma assumed was the way Corlant had been talking to her mother. She’d be lying if she claimed that she, too, wasn’t a bit disturbed.

If she had been thinking clearly, she probably would have followed too.

Corlant stepped in front of Alma before her good sense could return to her. He drew closer, gripping her chin and tilting her face up to look at him. “Are you happy?” he demanded, his voice low and harsh. Whatever she’d been expecting him to ask, that wasn’t it.

At the moment, she was delighted—getting to see Gretchya publicly refuse the man everyone hated was hardly an everyday occurrence. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem like a good idea to announce that to him not five minutes after he’d been rejected. “No,” she said, making eye contact.

“Why not?” His fingers pressed harder into her jaw.

“It’s—the Threadstones,” she managed. She wasn’t speaking as calmly as she normally did, but she fought to keep her words somewhat even. “Gretchya taught me a new method, and it frustrates me.”

Corlant blinked slowly. He had caught her in the lie, but he didn’t call her out on it. “Let me give you some advice, Alma.”

“Yes?” She doubted it was optional, but she couldn’t help the fear that spiked through her. Not to mention that if he gripped her much tighter, her jaw would bruise, and she would have to explain this conversation to Gretchya.

“Things go much more smoothly around here when people are happy,” Corlant murmured, his eyes dark. She found no sympathy or humanity there. “Whether it is you, or _Gretchya_ , or her daughter. So no matter how frustrating your little Threadstones are and no matter how many times Gretchya refuses my hand, for your sake”—his fingernails dug into her skin— “and for theirs”—he tugged her closer— “you would do well to be happy. And to smile.”

He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t release her either.

So Alma smiled.

And Corlant let her go. 

Alma was thirteen when Iseult left, and in spite of the way she was constantly treated by the other Midenzis, she still somehow wasn’t expecting it. She’d gotten so used to Iseult’s steady presence that the settlement didn’t really feel the same without her.

Not that she didn’t have plenty of other things to occupy herself with, though. Not long ago, Gretchya had begun the slow and secretive work of sewing piestras into the hems of her clothes where they couldn’t be seen—and the first time Alma caught her at it, she’d been tossed a scarf and told to join in whenever _he_ wasn’t around, which was rarely. It wasn’t difficult to guess why they did it, and she was unbelievably grateful for a chance at escape from this place, but a Threadwitch’s virtue was patience.

So she waited.

She’d officially been named Gretchya’s apprentice, and she now spent most of her time following the woman around as she officiated ceremonies and discussed Threads with people. Everyone openly discussed Alma’s future in that very role, and while those whispers had once made her uncomfortable, it was harder to begrudge them when Gretchya’s actual daughter wasn’t living with them anymore and therefore couldn’t have that responsibility.

And it was hard to be uncomfortable when there was so much to be proud of.

Not all of the moments were so lovely, of course, but she’d begun to do more than simply act apathetic when something upset her—she’d begun to smile. The habit might have started at Corlant’s instruction, but she quickly realized how much easier it was to smile than it was to do nothing at all, because a blank expression invited questions that she wasn’t supposed to answer. Questions that she _couldn’t_ answer, because a perfect Threadwitch didn’t talk about her feelings and everyone did say she was a perfect Threadwitch.

Alma didn’t feel like one. She didn’t think a perfect Threadwitch was supposed to hate her own witchery so much or wish she were blind just so she would never have to see purple again.

She was thinking about this as she watched Gretchya preside over a marriage ceremony, as was the custom for the leading Threadwitch of a settlement. That would be her one day, and everyone around her seemed so convinced, so certain that she would excel at it. The worst part, Alma thought, was that she really would and she still wouldn’t feel like she should be.

Everything was bright—the Threads of joy and adoration around them, the matching white gowns of the newly married Heart-Threads, the sun beaming down upon the ceremony. It was the perfect day for a wedding.

Everyone was so happy.

Except, of course, for a sulking man in brown robes who was never happy. Corlant lurked behind the crowd of Thread-family and well-wishers, his eyes fixed on not the brides but the officiator. As always.

Alma hoped that it hurt him to look at that couple. She hoped it cut straight to the heart he didn’t have when he saw a woman who had asked lovingly and a woman who had gladly said yes.

She knew that hoping was foolish when it wasn’t action. There was no action they could take until the moment was just right, and in moments like this painfully happy wedding, Alma thought there might never be a right moment and that she’d remain at the Midenzi settlement forever. She envied Iseult.

Corlant proposed to Gretchya for a second time that night, and she didn’t accept, but she didn’t laugh this time either. She returned home to a sewing project she didn’t dare finish, heavy locks bolted across the wooden door, and a perfect daughter who wasn’t really hers and wasn’t really perfect either.

Alma was fourteen when she finally admitted to herself, and not just to Corlant, that she wasn’t happy. It was petty and ungrateful, but she said it regardless on one of her frequent walks in the forest when no one could see or hear her.

She was tired of walking past the driven Threads of men that Gretchya paid valuable money to stand guard and keep away a man who shouldn’t have posed a danger to them. She was tired of having to stash supplies away in secret because her own home wasn’t good enough or safe enough. And bless her, she was _so tired_ of smiling.

Though she’d never say so aloud, Alma wanted nothing more than to cry and let herself feel all of those guttural things she wasn’t supposed to be feeling. But even when she was alone, she couldn’t go that far. She’d have to return to the settlement eventually, and they would see her red eyes and flushed cheeks: the evidence that she wasn’t perfect or even good, and she would be cast away like Iseult.

So instead she glanced around in the trees, searching for any sign of Threads. When she didn’t find any, she closed her eyes and saw nothing before she finally acknowledged the thing that she should’ve noticed about herself a long time ago.

“I’m not happy,” Alma whispered.

The funny thing was that saying it didn’t make it any easier. It just meant no one heard.

Rain began to fall down from the graying skies, sending a sharp chill through her that probably should have prompted her to go inside. It didn’t occur to her, though, and she stayed out in the pouring rain that afternoon until she decided it must be time for dinner.

The moment she stepped in the door, Gretchya’s gaze hardened with a look that she recognized from when she used to scold Iseult.

“I’m sorry,” Alma apologized before she could be chastised for being late. “I lost track of time, and—”

“Alma,” Gretchya interrupted, crossing over to stand in front of her with a deepening frown. “You’re shaking.”

And _that_ was when she realized she’d stayed outside so long that she couldn’t stop shivering. The cold rain had settled into her and become a kind of numbness that, apparently, she’d ignored. And apparently she wasn’t just petty and ungrateful but also a fool who was somehow surprised that she woke up sick the next morning.

Gretchya, in a rare turn of events, showed Alma no sympathy for the plight of her own making and said that short of collapsing where she stood, no illness would prevent her from fulfilling her errands around the village. She was an expert at hiding, though, so she hid the fatigue weighing down every muscle in her body and forced a smile onto her face so the light in her eyes would look excited rather than feverish.

Corlant didn’t see through it. He stopped her in the apothecary’s shop with a firm hand on her elbow. “Are you ill?”

“Yes,” she squeaked out. Her voice sounded dreadful like this, but she was trying to avoid inhaling too deeply and risking a coughing fit from the poultices in the shop.

“Does Gretchya take care of you at all?” he mused.

“Of—of course she does,” Alma managed before succumbing to the heavy air and doubling over as she coughed. Corlant grabbed her other arm as though worried she’d pass out, but she waved her hand at the shelves around them and he seemed to take the hint.

Once he’d led her out of the shop, she straightened. Her lungs had stopped spasming, but she felt weak, as if her legs might give out from underneath her at any moment. Corlant took one look at her before shaking his head and bringing her back to Gretchya’s home before she could finish the rest of her errands. She didn’t have the energy to put up a fight.

Gretchya didn’t open the door even when he pounded on it hard enough for Alma to wince at the loud noise. Finally he called, “Your _daughter_ nearly fainted in the apothecary’s shop and if you do not come here, I will leave her on your doorstep.”

The door opened and Gretchya immediately pulled Alma into her arms. She didn’t apologize for making her run errands even though she knew she was sick, but she hadn’t really expected that and her mind was too blurry for her to care. “Thank you for bringing her to me, Corlant,” Gretchya said firmly, kicking the door shut before he could utter another word. Alma’s eyes fluttered shut against her will, but she could hear the clinking of the padlocks on their chains before she was guided upstairs to rest.

When Alma was feeling coherent and well enough to remember the exact events of her encounter with Corlant, it occurred to her how very close he’d been while she was coughing uncontrollably. And indeed, they soon received word that Corlant was also sick.

She wished she could say she was happy about it, but really, who would she fool?

Alma was fifteen when Iseult came back, and it was the best day she’d had in a long time. The girl she considered a sister had returned, if only for a day, and Corlant was away from the village on one of his frequent disappearances. For the first time in what felt like months, her bright smile was a real one.

She’d missed Iseult so much, and she very much intended to make the most of this day while she could.

“Tell me about Veñaza City,” Alma said eagerly as soon as they’d sat down around Gretchya’s table. Scruffs had immediately leapt up into Iseult’s lap, bringing an easy smile to her face.

“It’s…busy,” Iseult said slowly, her hand freezing in place where she’d been petting Scruffs. The dog whined, nuzzling her palm until she resumed petting him again. “So many people and Threads, and a lot of them hate Nomatsis so I need to be careful. But I like it, and I have Thread-family there.”

Did she really? A pang struck Alma’s heart at the thought of people in Veñaza City who loved Iseult, who probably missed her and anxiously awaited her return from a place that carried only bad memories. It shouldn’t upset her to hear that Iseult had Thread-family in the city, and it certainly shouldn’t be jealous of her for it. She should be happy.

Her smile widened.

“What are they like?” Alma asked, leaning forward slightly. Gretchya didn’t reprimand her for it, of course, because her movements were controlled and calculated.

As always.

They sat there for quite some time as she listened to Iseult tell her about a bold Cartorran girl who always knew how to make her smile, a Marstoki man who taught her so calmly and patiently, and a Wordwitch who let her live above his coffee shop. She talked about them with unrestrained excitement and obvious love until Gretchya cleared her throat quietly beside them, and Iseult fell silent, focusing on Scruffs instead.

Time passed too quietly and far too quickly, and by the time the sun rose, Iseult had left again.

Alma was sixteen when she started to wish that she’d left too, even though she knew she could never do that and leave Gretchya here alone. They still sewed supplies into their clothes whenever possible so they would be prepared for a quick escape, but it was slow work when resources were limited and Gretchya spent so much money on bribing people to keep Corlant away.

To make matters worse, there was only so much the men could distract him when he was so determined to be close by. It wasn’t abnormal anymore for him to linger by their doorway or stare through the window or stand by the chicken coop, silently watching.

And worse _still_ , Gretchya had learned that Corlant was no mere Purist priest but a Cursewitch. It should have been impossible, but the odd dulling of Threads whenever he was close to her was enough proof that it wasn’t. At first Alma was overjoyed at the leverage they’d been given and so was Gretchya, who left one evening to go confront Corlant and threaten to tell the entire village what he was. She returned looking many years older and extracted a promise from Alma that no matter how badly she wished to, she wouldn’t tell a soul.

She couldn’t deny Gretchya that promise. Or anything, really.

During Corlant’s rare excursions outside the settlement, Gretchya had begun teaching Alma how to defend herself using a cutlass. Though she couldn’t practice often, she poured her heart and soul into those lessons until her hands wore down and bled and she had to tell Corlant that she’d cut herself with thorns while picking blackberries. It was a lie, but what was one more to the thousand she’d already told?

Alma popped a blackberry in her mouth and thought that the fruit itself was yet another lie. It wasn’t black, after all. It was purple.

Alma was seventeen when Corlant caught her practicing defensive maneuvers with her cutlass, and just for a moment, she knew what it was like to fear for her life. When the jolting moment passed, she knew that he would not kill her for so small a thing, not when he could still use her to control Gretchya, but the panic sent through her heart at being discovered wasn’t something she could forget.

“Is this how you spend your time while I’m away?” he asked, his voice so terribly calm as he swung down from his horse and walked over to her.

So Alma did what she did best, and she smiled.

“It’s a useful skill to have,” she said calmly, the stasis taking over as it always did.

“Is it, now?” Corlant took the cutlass from her and she let him, not knowing what other option she had. He examined the blade before taking Alma’s hand and flipping it so her palm faced up and he could see the calluses there.

“You must be careful,” Corlant murmured, his fingers cold against her palm. He spoke quietly, almost gently if she didn’t know better. “A cutlass is much sharper than blackberry thorns, Alma, and has none of the sweetness.”

Her mouth went dry. He was threatening her, that was for certain, but she wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by his words or who else he was threatening. It couldn’t be just her, because it never really had been.

Corlant handed her the blade again, curling her fingers around the hilt before stepping back. “Don’t let me keep you, but think about what I said. Remember it.”

It wasn’t far from here to the rest of the village, but he mounted his horse again to ride the rest of the way. He always loved dramatic entrances.

She gripped the cutlass so tightly her knuckles went white. It was the only way she’d ever be able to show her anger, and by the Moon Mother, she was so angry. Alma wasn’t a violent person, but now she wished more than anything else for him to be dead so they could be at peace. She hated Corlant det Midenzi. She _hated_ purple.

Alma was eighteen when she realized how very much she wanted to talk, not about the settlement or about Threadstones, but about herself. She wasn’t asking for anything at all—just to talk about it, just to say the words so someone could know how _sick_ she felt when Corlant was nearby.

Which was almost always, now.

She’d felt that way ever since she saw him through the window seven years ago (had it really been seven?), but not too long ago she had noticed the barest hints of lilac Threads curling away from him towards not just Gretchya, but also her.

The first time she saw those Threads, she thought she would actually be ill. The second time, she wished she could find it in herself to be surprised. The third time she wanted to run away from the Midenzis and never come back, and the fourth time she knew she couldn’t as long as Gretchya remained, and all the times after that blurred together in the same color, the same sickness.

They waited; they bided their time.

They shared in their pain and their struggles, but never spoke about it. Alma knew that she did not truly understand everything Gretchya continued to go through, but padlocks that had been chipped away from a door were not hard to understand. 

Through it all, though—through the purple Threads and piercing glares and fake smiles—they were silent. They had precious few alternatives. If the two perfect Threadwitches were anything but complacent and silent, people would know there was something wrong, and if people knew something was wrong, things would get so much worse.

Alma could find a way to deal with the horrors she’d gotten used to. Some days she thought it was the silence that would kill her.

Alma was nineteen when she wished she could talk about how _scared_ she was, in spite of all the little rules and whispers that said she couldn’t. No, talking wasn’t enough anymore. If this was about what she wanted, she would ask for much more—she would ask to cry about it, to scream until her throat was raw because Moon Mother save her, she didn’t know what that felt like anymore.

When she was where no one but Gretchya would see her, Alma had taken to fidgeting with her hands. It still reminded her of that boy she used to know from the Korelli tribe, but she didn’t care anymore. She’d rather have the memories than that awful pent-up energy, and Gretchya seemed to understand because so long as she did it in private, she was never scolded for it.

What was Iseult doing right now? She was probably spending time with her Thread-family in the city, laughing and drinking coffee in the Wordwitch’s shop while feeling unapologetically happy and safe.

It was a strange thing indeed when the girl sent away from home at twelve years old was the lucky one.

Alma had forgotten what it was like to feel safe, and certainly couldn’t imagine feeling such a way right now. But she was most memorable for her impression of happiness, and if her mask broke now, so would she.

She huddled close to Scruffs and gave the oblivious hound her very brightest smile.

Alma was twenty when Iseult came back again, only to get caught up in a positive whirlwind of danger. She was, as Corlant referred to her, _other_ now—wearing the clothes of a Dalmotti apprentice and with her hair far longer than any Threadwitch’s. It had to be cut, and the clothes had to be changed, if she was to maintain any semblance of normalcy. But then again, normalcy didn’t really exist anymore for anyone, and she supposed it was hardly a surprise when things escalated regardless.

So she suddenly found herself in the forest four days ahead of schedule as Gretchya treated an arrow wound in Iseult’s arm.

Gretchya uttered quiet criticisms to Iseult as she applied Earthwitch healer salves and bound her bicep with the bandages they’d so carefully stowed away. Alma stood between Alichi and a tree as she listened wordlessly.

For some reason, it hurt Alma to hear Iseult be ceaselessly chided. It was so easy to be put on a pedestal when it was too high for the only opposition to ever reach. It didn’t mean Alma deserved the pedestal, just that she’d been handed a ladder.

Maybe part of this was her fault for being selfish. She was away from the settlement, away from Corlant, and she still wasn’t happy.

She stayed quiet until she heard Iseult ask why they were going to Saldonica, and she knew that continuing to say nothing would be rather suspicious. Clearing her throat, she offered, “I have aunts and cousins that live in the Sirmayan Mountains. Their tribe travels to Saldonica each year.”

“In the meantime,” Gretchya said with a nod, “we will sell Threadstones. Apparently there is a growing market for them in Saldonica.”

That was true enough, but really it was just a familiar place where they could get away. They were strategic, yes, but they were also desperate.

So, so desperate to feel safe.

“Pirates need love too,” Alma added halfheartedly. _And so do I._ She felt herself about to sob, so she did the thing that happy people did instead, and she smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> I just really wanted to get into Alma's POV and think about what she must be going through. The entire dynamic between Iseult, Alma, Gretchya, and Corlant is really messed up, and not just for Iseult. This is just my take on what things might have been like for Alma growing up. I know it's really sad, but I hope you liked it! Please leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed it. :D


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